


The Sanctuary in Soho

by herebewyverns



Series: The Third Side [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), LGBTQ Themes, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:23:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29697756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herebewyverns/pseuds/herebewyverns
Summary: Look, live in London for long enough, and nothing will faze you. It’s not that you don’t notice, of course you notice, if you went around blatantly ignoring things like this, you’d be dead and thus no longer living in London. You just… you just learn to absorb things like this and move on.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Original Characters (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Soho (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Soho & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Third Side [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1403548
Comments: 26
Kudos: 144





	The Sanctuary in Soho

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the memory of Peter Dorey, a brave man and a true pioneer. May we all live up to the example he set us, and seek to make the world a better, safer, kinder and generally more well-read place.  
> Do check out the LGBT+ Bookshop he helped set up in 1979: Gay’s The Word (<https://www.gaystheword.co.uk/>)  
>   
> As ever, grateful thanks to Hawkwind1980 for beta-ing, cheering-leading and generally being awesome!

There’s an immortal in London, in the Soho area, that runs a bookshop.

Well, we say _runs_ a bookshop. That’s probably overly-kind. That man runs a bookshop like most people own houseplants; you forget to pay any attention to it for ages, by all appearances heartily resent having to pay it any attention when you do, but are strangely pleased when complimented for it.

No one goes to A.Z. Fell & Co’s bookshop to buy books. That’s just not what it’s for. _[1]_

 _[1] Borrow, certainly. Sometimes. Mr Fell has rather a large collection of books covering topics which for a great many years were banned and confiscated. For young men, women, and indeterminate, Mr Fell is a quiet listening ear and somehow always has the perfect reading list to hand, not to mention the address to anywhere else that you might find… helpful. Of course_ _, Mr Fell’s general aura and reputation had resulted_ _in the Vice Squad attempting to raid the premises on multiple occasions, [1.1] with the individuals concerned generally leaving confused and often questioning several of their chosen paths in life. Too many … visitations from the law tended to result in good officers suddenly resigning in order to join various seminaries or volunteer organisations, and eventually enough of a pattern emerged that the Commissioner finally put his foot down and declared that as a general matter of practical policing policy, Mr Fell’s Bookshop didn’t exist. This worked out best for everybody, really._

_[1.1] On more than one memorable occasion, this resulted in the Vice squad nearly tripping over certain members of a local mob on their own hurried way out of the door. Everyone – aware of the deeply awkward nature of such encounters - carefully avoided each other’s eyes, and generally on such occasions the police quietly turned and left. Mr Fell had obviously already had a trying morning and no one wished to risk pressing him further than his patience could stretch._

Now that might seem to be pretty par for the course as far as old bookshops go. Grumpy owner, check. No organisational system comprehensible to the human mind for the books, check. Weird to the point of the ridiculous opening hours, alongside frequent yet unexpectedly random closing, check.

Totally normal.

Except that A.Z. Fell & Co is not, in fact, a normal anything. Nor is its owner, no matter how much Mr Fell thinks that he has got away with it.

Soho is not short of families who have been there for generations, and they all, every single one of them, know Mr Fell. Have always known Mr Fell. Who always looks like Mr Fell, never changes so much as his wardrobe, never mind his face, never ages or _anything_. _[2]_

_[2] There are rumours that he once tried out facial hair but ultimately decided against it. It’s nice that he tried, but when a being’s gone and found himself a Look he’s happy with, it’s probably best to just stick with it._

It’s not that they don’t _notice_ ; rather it is that they all know that it’s fine. It is all fine.

Mr Fell might not be like them - not even a little bit - but he won’t do them any harm.

Mr Fell takes care of everybody in Soho, no matter who they are or where they come from. They’re all _his_ in some intangible way. London’s moved with the times too much to think in terms of old liege-lords looking after their vassals and lands, but the romanticised version of such a system still holds to be very much the case here in Soho, under Mr Fell’s watch.

Everyone’s safer in Soho, no matter what reputation the place might have to outsiders. Small businesses succeed in the face of larger competitors, from coffee shops to bookshops (real ones. Ones that, you know, _sell books_. Blasphemers though they may be.) Certain kinds of clubs or boutique traders in _very specific_ wear never have the trouble with broken windows and unwanted attention as they can in other areas. A great many careers begin here, gently encouraged by a kindly man who comes to every show and claps so enthusiastically he sweeps his fellows along with him. Sometimes the man brings quiet, nervous-looking young men and women with him, sits with them at the back and makes introductions afterwards on occasion. Mr Fell might not always care for the music ‘these young people seem to prefer these days’ but he always finds something special to point to as his personal favourite, and they are all so proud when he does.

It’s always been that way. The bombs never hit them back when they fell, nor came the shrapnel flying in. Crime’s nowhere near what the Metropolitan Police stats say it should be for ‘that sort of area’ and no one takes offense, they just smile secretively. More than once some poor mugger tries to pick out a mark, makes their approach, and is taken gently by the elbow and spoken to by a soft-toned gentleman before either getting their life straightened out or resolving to pick another patch to operate from in future.

Families are safer, happier in Soho. He won’t raise his hand to you, not now you’ve moved to Soho, and if he does, well. He’ll not be here for much longer, so don’t you worry. Maybe he’ll have this sudden urge to join the Navy, take himself off to see the world? Maybe he just won’t come home at all, and isn’t it odd how he had so much to leave you? Never would have thought… Don’t worry about the rent and the kids, lovey, it’ll all take care of itself. The ex who can’t seem to let go won’t find you, no matter how hard he looks, and the more persistent among the rejected are soon Dealt With in various manners which no one speaks of in polite company. Food never runs as short as it should in Soho; no matter how long ago you last had the funds for the bags of rice and tins of soup, they’ll never get further down than the last five, and if you look away for long enough, you’ll find the cupboard is filled again when you look back.

It’s not that they don’t all _see it_ , but even the ones raised to know the secret names of such things never have cause to worry. There’s never anything asked in return, not in Soho.

There’re no deals at crossroads, no hands shaken in the night. No children go missing without trace; they always come home eventually. Usually they were just down in Mr Fell’s bookshop anyway, or they will be shortly after the hue and cry goes out for the little tykes, and so long as you don’t mention the chocolate smears and the crumbs, both child and Mr Fell will believe whole-heartedly that they have been successful in their ruse and _no one will ever know if you take a second biscuit, I’m sure, my dear._

It doesn’t work outside of Soho, of course. Everything has a limit, that’s how you know it’s real. When the wars came, all of them, everyone lost someone or something. Mr Fell is not all-powerful, everyone learns, but no one blames him for it, because it is perfectly obvious that he blames himself far more than anyone else ever could.

Mrs Burrows, still living in her little flat above the end-of-street newsagents, well over her (first) century now and going strong, she has all the best stories of Mr Fell to tell the children. But when the children get a bit older, she solemnly tells them of Mr Fell during the wars. How he’d run himself ragged and no one could make him stop. How he’d gone again and again to Europe and beyond, trying the find his boys and bring them home. How even when he was home, he’d be in hospitals, and visiting families, and stretching rations and firewood and renewing clothing when he thought he could get away with it. How this was when Soho learned that it needed to look after Mr Fell just as much as he wanted to look after them.

“Don’t you ever ask Mr Fell for anything big, you hear me?” She’d admonish them, “Poor man works damned hard to take care of us all, and he’ll push himself harder and harder for you until he can’t anymore. You don’t ever want to see him like that. T’would make angels weep to see ‘im like that ever again.” _[3]_

 _[3]_ _This is too true. Several guardians had indeed wept at the weariness Aziraphale had shown whenever he reported in to Heaven anytime between 1912 and 1945. Others had gone out specifically to learn the distinctly un-angelic vocabulary necessary to give appropriate expression to their feelings on the matter._ _In later years, Crowley is delighted to learn about how many of the guardians can already use non-religious curses with such great fluency. It’s the little things, when you’re a demon…_

No one likes to make Mr Fell so sad or tired, so they try very hard not to give him cause. Mr Fell isn’t something you need to take offerings to, it’s not like that at all. But he likes good food, loves for someone to bring him round an extra portion of some family recipe to try, loves to feel welcomed and involved. There’s a really big cookbook selection to the left in his shop that you’ll only ever find if you live in Soho. Mostly it’s used by young mothers who feel that they need to cook more healthily now the little ones are eating, or students living on their own for the first time ever. But sometimes the older women like to gather there on rainy days and reminisce about meals that they never make anymore, rabbit and ox-tails and all sorts of things that aren’t ever coming back into culinary fashion, but weren’t they so _satisfying_ back in the day? Mr Fell loves to join in with them, chattering on about the days when oysters where cheaper than chips and available simply _everywhere_. He likes to talk about food, does Mr Fell. Cheers him up no end to talk about an old favourite or discover a new one.

He loves when the kids bring him paintings from school, gets dreadfully flustered that they all draw him with wings, keeps looking over his shoulder in a bashful way as if they might sprout from his back if he’s not paying attention. Mr Fell really is so funny like that.

If you need advice, or help with something, maybe bring him tea or biscuits – it’s not an imposition if there are biscuits after all, it’s just a nice chat, isn’t it? If you lose your keys or your wallet, check in at Mr Fell’s before you panic, he’ll always have them waiting for you behind the counter, even if sometimes he pretends to be surprised to find them there too. He thinks he’s a comedian sometimes, Mr Fell does. _[4]_

_[4] Which… well, as a matter of fact, he is a comedian, actually; it’s just that the things he intends as jokes aren’t as funny as the things he takes seriously._

So what if Mr Fell has been around since the shop opened back in 1800, as far as anyone can tell? An immortal’s got to live somewhere, hasn’t he? And everyone’s just so glad he chose to live with them.

Always good to know someone’s looking over them, that someone cares so much for them all, in real and tangible ways. Soho’s own guardian angel, people like to joke to each other. _[5]_

_[5] The real guardian angels are a little miffed by this on Aziraphale’s behalf. He’s ranked rather higher than a mere guardian angel, after all. Aziraphale, by contrast, had been rather flattered by the comparison. “It really shows that I’ve been doing something, my dears. Such a compliment!”_

*

If Mr Fell has been around since forever, Mr Crowley is only a slightly newer addition. Turned up back in the Second World War, as far as Mrs Burrows remembers, and no one remembers as well as she does. Though maybe they knew each other from before then, too? They like to go out drinking of an evening sometimes, and when they get back to the shop, they’re never quite so quiet nor so circumspect with their conversations as they think they are. _[6]_

_[6] There’s a lot of talk among the neighbourhood’s younger, more fanciful, set about how old Mr Fell and Mr Crowley are and where they first must have met. The development of image-searching has led to a lot of cheeky little research projects, but there’s never much to be found in paintings or statues, nothing that would stand up to much scrutiny at least. From their little chats, you’d think it was some philosophy school or another, at some point. The leading theory says they met in Oxford or Cambridge in the nineteenth century, probably at some college or other; Mr Fell’s whole… outfit, and Mr Crowley’s classically Bohemian affections certainly lead credence to the idea. [6.1] The more daring suspect it was a perhaps pre-Revolution salon in France, and the really daring suspect that it was even so far back as some ancient Greek agora or Roman forum. They just think both men, oddly, have the figure for togas. They would never dare to ask either of them, of course. It would ruin the fun, and might be considered as cheating._

_[6.1] That and Mr Fell’s persistent habit of referring to ‘Dear young Oscar’ as if he had personally known the man. Mr Crowley always sniffs a lot in a pointed manner whenever the topic is raised, but – Simon Matthews always argues – as the man who so very clearly is the reason why all of Wilde’s men are incapable of sitting down like normal beings and instead must ‘fling’ themselves at helpless furniture, he likely is still bitter at having his Thing stolen…_

In general, everyone is inclined to approve greatly of Mr Crowley, not least because when he came back, Mr Fell stopped looking like he was going to test that immortality of his right into the grave. He still took himself off to foreign parts looking for broken lads and shattered boys and try to bring them home safely, but when it looks like he’s worn himself straight through to the bone, Mr Crowley always comes round to drag him back home and fuss at him until he’s recovered himself a little.

Mr Crowley’s got a good heart, it is generally agreed, even if he is the type to show his fretting for his friend mostly by growling at him and pulling odd faces. Mr Fell has a stubborn streak as wide as the Thames is long and all, but Mr Crowley only has to slink into the Bookshop and drape himself dramatically over the sofa and moan about being cruelly abandoned for Mr Fell’s most determined plans to crumble before him.

Oh, Mr Crowley’s a great one for snapping at you if you come round when he’s there, jealous and guarded of his Mr Fell, but Mr Fell’s _theirs_ now too, and he subsides easily enough when the matrons cluck their tongues at him and brandish an umbrella or yard broom in his direction. Sulks dreadfully, but Mr Fell says he’s always like that, and his smile tells them all that he’s very well-used to Mr Crowley pouting about through his sunglasses. Besides, it isn’t as though Mr Crowley can cook hearty meals _[7]_ or chatter on while waving sticky fingers into Mr Fell’s face until he remembers how to smile, now is it? He’ll not eat any of the food the ladies bring round, not even when Mr Fell coaxes him, but he can pout better than any toddler to encourage Mr Fell to eat that extra portion of pie when he thinks he shouldn’t.

_[7] Not for lack of trying, sometimes. Sadly, Crowley’s tendency towards Sloth means that he always tries miracles to help with some aspect of the cooking, which means that the food never tastes quite right._

And for all that Mr Crowley snaps and hisses at you, he never bites, nor even comes close. He looks out for you when he’s off doing his own rounds – making trouble, everyone thinks, you’ve only got to look at him to know it, but he’s not bad all the way through, and everyone’s got a little of the devil inside of them, haven’t they? – if he finds you lost or in need of a bit of a hand, he’s always right there, grumbling all the while but gentle enough as he takes you home.

There’d been what Mrs Higgs euphemistically calls “a bit of a barney” between the pair of them a couple of months back, snapping and shouting at each other from across the street, and everyone had worried. It weren’t like their usual spats where they’ve made up within the hour and Mr Crowley comes over with wine and they finish up giggling into the night. No, this time it was serious!

Everyone in Soho had known that something was wrong, had _been_ wrong for some time in face. Mr Fell had been becoming more and more twitchy, his face starting to show signs of worry that were etching their lines deeper and deeper around his eyes, his smile looking ever more false. His Bookshop doors open less and less often too, as if he were trying to keep something out… or trying to make sure that none of them got caught _inside_ with whatever he thought was coming, said Philippa Martins afterwards, though she was doubtless drawing from later events.

*

“It’s worrying me, Jack,” Gethin Williams muttered, watching Mr Fell coming down the street, his mind clearly a thousand miles and more away from where his feet stepped. People moved quietly out of his way, watching him from the corners of their eyes, worried but aware that they would likely be unable to do much to help. Mr Fell looks after _them_ after all. Not so much the other way around.

“I know Gethin, but I’m sure he’ll get everything straightened out soon. He’s a determined little cuss when he sets his mind to it.”

Jack Campbell came quietly up behind his husband, arms reaching around to embrace his fretting spouse. It had been a quiet enough day in the little wine shop they’d run together for 40 years now, and if a man couldn’t give his husband a bit of support then what good was he? Everyone in Soho had been jumpy for days, catching one after the other with Mr Fell sitting right at the centre.

A rumble came from down the street, the sound of a motor now well-familiar to the Soho regulars.

“Ach, and there’s Himself, come to cheer Mr Fell up, I see.”

The ungainly tangle of leather and limbs which generally answered to Mr Crowley tumbled out of the old Bentley, one arm upraised in greeting.

“Angel!”

“Oh, goin’ straight for the pet names already, I see,” Gethin chuckled affectionately. Jack gave him a squeeze but they each tilted their heads to keep the pair in sight.

Mr Fell turned and waited to be approached.

“I’m sorry. I apologise. Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it…”

“Well, there you go then,” Jack reassured his own love, “Sally said she’d thought they’d had a tiff.”

“Hmm. Hell of a ‘tiff’ to put Mr Fell out like that, but I suppose you’re never too old to quarrel, are you?”

“Not if we’re anything to go by-“ Gethin’s fond voice stopped short, cut off abruptly by a _tsk_ as Mr Crowley continued.

“Work with me, I’m apologising here. Yes? Good. Get in the car.”

“What? No!”

“Oh! Honestly, pet, he’s as bad as you!”

“I was never so bad as all that!” Jack defended, bringing his head and shoulders eeling around his husband to cast him a playfully shocked look. Honestly, you’d think a man would learn better than rush an apology so for his own plans…

Mr Crowley’s hands made a series of complicated _‘Hurry up, I have things to do’_ motions.

“They’ve figured out it was my fault. But we can… We can run away, together. Alpha Centauri. Spare planets up there. Nobody will notice us.”

“Ah, but he’s a romantic bastard when he wants to be, ain’t he?” Jack murmured, his heart not entirely in it any more. This was looking less and less like a man apologising and more like… like the bad old days when you grabbed your kit and moved from more set of lodgings to another sharply before the landlord called the police with his suppositions.

Mr Fell shakes his head.

“Crowley, you’re being… ridiculous.”

They keep talking together, going in closer and closer, voices hushed and earnest, frantic now.

Then Mr Fell suddenly draws back, looks around at the street and a fierce look crosses his face as he squares his shoulders, stands his ground and looks so horribly brave that Jack hisses a sharp breath behind Gethin’s ear.

“Bugger me, they’re _not_ , are they?”

“I forgive you.”

It was said so flat, so _final_. Jack has had his share of bad breakups in his life, they all have, but he’s never before heard forgiveness sound so much like ‘get out., like ‘goodbye.’

Mr Crowley stands stock still for a moment, shocked, and then something seems to shatter within him, the same thing that has shattered inside Mr Fell too. Mr Crowley spins away suddenly, storming towards that car of his and throwing the door open with a contemptuous yank of his wrist.

“I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff. And then I’m leaving. And when I’m off in the stars, I - I won’t even _think_ about you!”

“Oh, Jack, no!” Gethin turns sharply away, burying his face in his husband’s shoulder. “They can’t! Not after everything, it’s too sad!”

“Hush, pet, I’m sure it’ll all be fine.” Jack rubbed a hand up and down his lover’s back soothingly. It _would_ all be fine. It had to be Mr Fell and his love, they’d been so comfortably _together_ now for so long, longer than any of them could rightly remember. They’d shown Jack that he could be brave to, could settle down and be happy. Without Mr Fell and Mr Crowley… Jack wouldn’t have Gethin at all…

And yet, there Mr Fell had been, left all alone at last, standing there in the street looking so lost, and so sad and it had clean broken everyone’s hearts to see him so. Mr Stubbs - nice man, bit pessimistic, but then he’d had reason to be - he’d tried to offer his own comfort, but how can you comfort a man when his life’s love has left him?

*

And of course, _then_ there’d been those no-good thugs _[8]_ pushing Mr Fell into alleyways, and roughing him up, and no one had known what was happening at all only that things were happening and they were terrible and no one knew how to _help_.

_[8] The same, Ms Evans swore, as had been by earlier in the week and had come into poor Mr Fell’s shop shouting about pornography at the top of their lungs! Well, it was as if they’d gone right out of their ways to make Mr Fell feel uncomfortable in his own home, and in front of them all too! Mr Anand had had to be held right back by Mr Patel before he went up and gave the pair a real piece of his mind, shouting about like that; it isn’t as if you didn’t know to ask Mr Fell quietly and politely about the items in his backroom if you had questions, you don’t go bellowing in from the street! Honestly…_

There was even that one, awful night when Mr Fell’s precious bookshop had burned down to the ground and everyone had known then that something terrible had happened. Everyone else, they said on the tv and the radio, they said the world was ending because of the frogs and the fish and the aliens and the wars, but in Soho? They all knew it when Mr Fell’s Bookshop caught fire, and when Mr Crowley arrived and ran in there straight away, not a thought for himself, but came out again alone and crying and broken, and everyone had broken on the inside too, just looking at him.

No one knew when or how the fire had started but they’d all come tumbling from their homes to gather on the street in mute horror.

“Jack!” Gethin gasped, too shocked to do anything but stare, “ _You_ _don’t think he’s-?_ ”

“No! Hush, pet, hush, he’ll not be in there, he’ll be with Mr Crowley, won’t he? They’ve never argued this long, have they now?” _[9]_

_[9] They had, of course, and for far longer too, but ever since the last big argument back in 1862, Aziraphale and Crowley had been making much more of an effort all round, thoroughly enjoying the resulting up-tick in dinners together and shared amusements. It’s almost like spending ever-more time with one’s favourite person is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?_

“Yes, yes, you’re right, you must be,” Gethin sniffed, accepting Mrs Bradshaw’s spare tissue gratefully. “He’ll be awfully narked about those books though. Loves ‘em, he does.”

“Easier to replace the books though, keep looking on the good side,” jack reminded him, taking his husband’s hand.

There is a screech of brakes, and Mr Crowley’s enormous black Bentley came to a sharp stop before the burning building, the man himself coming tumbling out if it, tripping over his own feet he was so desperate.

A fire fighter steps in his way, trying to slow down the strange new-comer before he barrels right into an unstable situation.

“Are you the owner of this establishment, sir?”

Mr Crowley, even in the midst of a crisis, always has time for a sarcastic quip. “Do I look like I run a bookshop?”

He barely pauses, flinging the remark over his shoulder as he strides on past like an unwanted bone in a feasting hall. The fire fighter shouts after him,

“Hey! You can’t go in there! Stop him!”

It’s too late, he’s in, raising a hand against the heat and shouting desperately. The awful realisation has dawned on the Soho crowd: Mr Fell _wasn’t_ out for the evening with Mr Crowley at all.

He was-

“ _Aziraphale! Aziraphale!_ Where the Heaven are you? You idiot! … FOR SOMEBODY’S SAKE, WHERE ARE YOU?! I can’t FIND YOU!”

 _“Fuck…”_ breathes Jack, feelingly. Old Mrs Burrows doesn’t even _tsk_ at him for the language in front of the children. She just nods and leans against his solid frame as if the effort of standing is too much for her all of a sudden. Glancing down, Jack thinks distantly that she’s aged fifty years this evening. He wraps one arm around her, bringing her in close, the other tucking Gethin into his broad chest as well.

Mr Crowley is still screaming into the flames, his voice rising and falling in desperation, barely intelligible half the time, then heartbreakingly clear. Mrs Bradshaw puts Gethin’s shoulder silently, and though the fire fighters keep trying to push them al back, as burning pages fly out of shattered windows t flutter down like some horrifying mockery of snowflakes, they all stand together, joined in their grieving.

Jack thinks of the thugs they’d seem roughing Mr Fell up. He thinks of how nervous and jumpy Mr Fell has been lately, He thinks further back, to the days before he came to Soho himself, running from Glasgow first, and then from Manchester, always running then, with the torn clothes and slashed face to show mute witness to the times he’d not run fast enough.

“I thought these days were over,” he whispers, casting his eyes upwards as if he expected an answer. “I thought we’d moved past this.”

Gethin sobs then, drawing Jack back to him. Inside the Bookshop there’s movement.

As Mr Crowley stumbles from the wreckage, soaked to the skin, bleeding from his hands and knees, covered in soot, Jack thinks suddenly that there is something very _off_ about the way that he walks, something inhuman starting to show through the crumbling façade they have all come to know. His familiar sunglasses are burned up, melting in places, though his face itself is completely unscathed, and when he pulls them off to drop carelessly onto the pavement, Jack can clearly seen the wild, snapping golden of his _eyes._

The creature Jack has known for years – has mocked the wine tastes of and sought car advice from - it howls his rage to the universe, between teeth which have never looked more like fangs.

“Somebody _killed_ my best friend. **_BASTARDS!_** ”

And just like that Jack realises that it doesn’t matter that Mr Crowley is barely remembering what shape his body is meant to be. It doesn’t matter that he’s got serpent’s eyes and fangs. Mr Crowley’s lost his husband, lost him without ever being able to reconcile after their fight, lost him in those flames where even something inhuman like whatever Mr Crowley is cannot follow.

Jack remembers, suddenly, being over three decades younger, sitting down in Mr Fells’ backroom and worrying for hours about the young man he’d met lately, the one who liked art and photography and who was so much better-read and better spoken than he, Jack, could ever hope to be. Worrying that this was only a passing fling, that he’d never be able to keep up with him, that they’d drift apart, that they were too different.

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that sort of thing, my boy,” Mr Fell had said, topping off his young visitor’s tea cup. “I don’t really know that there’s such a thing as _too different_ in a relationship, so long as you both want the same things. That’s what makes the _having_ of things so much more pleasant; all the little differences and diverse interests. After all, the thing which really unites us all is love, is it not?”

And Mr Fell, he’d been right back then. Gethin might leave his cameras all over the flat in the most ridiculous of places, might outright refuse to drink any wine out of the right glass, no matter how often Jack tried to tell him, but they’d made it work – more, had delighted in doing so – for so many years…

And whatever Mr Crowley was, whatever Mr Fell had been… they had loved each other. Truly and deeply and without reservation… and now one of them had died for it. Died and left the other to carry on alone.

That was when the world ended in Soho.

When they knew that Mr Fell was dead.

*

And then all of a sudden… there the Bookshop was again. Right back in place and pretending that it had never been burned at all!

Well, it just goes to show you, doesn’t it? Never such a thing as beyond hope, right?

Mr Fell’s a bit … odd, even for himself, the first day he comes back. Suppose coming back from the dead would throw anyone off, even someone like Mr Fell.

Still he soon sorts himself back out, and is straight back to his old tricks. He’s more relaxed now, Mr Fell, much less jumpy, and the thugs don’t ever show their faces in the neighbourhood again, which probably helps.

Suddenly everyone in Soho had window boxes, filled with flowers all year round, even though no one ever waters or feeds them. Maybe some of them didn’t especially _want_ a few window boxes to clash with their aesthetics, but then again if Mr Fell thinks the place needs a spot of brightening up, then it’s best to leave him to it. He might get tired of it, he might not. Living in Soho means dealing with little things like that.

Mr Crowley often stops and growls at the flower boxes like they’ve personally offended him in some way, but oddly when he turns away to stalk off towards another box, the ones he leaves behind look even nicer than they did before. It’s the oddest thing, and Mr Fell seems to find it all by turns mildly vexing and deeply amusing, and he sometimes sneaks out at night to say encouraging things to them, presumably when Mr Crowley’s not looking. The next time Mr Crowley comes to call, he sniffs disapprovingly and wags his finger at Mr Fell, who looks like he’s only barely holding in laughter.

“You’ve been spoiling them again, angel! You mark my words, there’ll only be trouble and mildew if you let discipline slide!”

“Of course, dear.” Mr Fell says, and chucks his partner under the chin. Mr Crowley’s always so sweetly flustered by Mr Fell showing him affection in public, it’s like he forgets what year it is. But then, if you’ve lived for so many as Mr Fell and Mr Crowley, perhaps that’s a regular hazard? _[10]_

_[10] It is._

Mr Crowley thinks that no one will notice if he just – ever so casually mind – moves himself in with Mr Fell. Honestly, you’d think he thought everyone was oblivious or something! _[11]_ You’d never get nowhere in Soho if you went around not noticing the obvious like that!

_[11] It somehow escapes Crowley’s notice that most of Soho’s waitstaff ask him if he wants the usual today or something different. On the other hand, when Steffen the jeweller at the end of the street asked Mr. Crowley if he’d like to look at ring designs for Mr Fell, Mr Crowley turned deep red and sputtered for several long minutes._ _Steffen had an inexplicable rat problem for the next few days despite being quite good about keeping his home and shop clean. Eventually he mentioned it to Mr Fell for some advice; Mr Fell had sighed in a most put-upon manner and then smiled kindly and reassured Steffen that he would ‘sort everything out’. The rats were gone again by the evening_ _._

“This rather _reminds_ me of something,” Gethin laughs, when Mrs Bradshaw comes round to exchange gossip under the guise of buying a bottle or two of nice wine for a girls’ night in later.

“For the last time, you wretch,” Jack pretends to growl, completely unable to hold in his grin, “you were given every opportunity to send me packing.”

“You seduced me with your jazz records.” Gethin returns, airily. “I was quite hopelessly distracted at the time.”

“Oh, is _that_ what he distracted you with, Gethin?” Mrs Bradshaw chimes in and Gethin blushes quite as red as her grandson when caught mid-mischief. No matter how old young men get, she supposes, leaving the pair to continue to gently tease each other in the wine shop, to walk past the far older pair of young men gently teasing each other outside of the Bookshop, they still do tend to have the most unfounded ideas of their own subtlety…

*

And _now_ , there are more of them! More people who remind those who live in Soho very much of Mr Crowley and Mr Fell.

Some of them arrive all alone, and some of them arrive in groups. There’d been a great fuss when they’d first started showing up, but these days things have obviously settled down a lot because no matter when they arrive or in what number they are all greeted with warmth and affection by Mr Fell, who likes to have new people to fuss over it seems, and with calm solidarity by Mr Crowley.

Some of them are clearly trying to look a little wicked, with varying degrees of success. Some of them are trying to look unobtrusive, and they stand out like a sore thumb, so obvious it’s actually a little painful. There’s a lot tartan all around for everyone’s first few days, and then they seem to settle down into relatively normal clothes. _[12]_

_[12] Normal for Soho, that is, rather than normal for Holborn. Let’s not go too far. Some might possibly manage to blend in so far as Covent Garden, but no further, which is just as well, really._

No one asks Mr Fell who the strange new men and women are. You don’t ask questions like that in Soho, especially not about anything connected to Mr Fell. But Mrs Burrows leads everyone in asking him how they are doing. Are they settling in well? Does Mr Fell need anything? Blankets, clothes, extra food. Are they feeling safer now? Everyone pretends not to notice how the younger ones start getting a little sniffly and teary-eyed when they over-hear such conversations. It can take a while for people to settle back into safety after not feeling it in far too long, and no one wants to make them embarrassed or scared. They smile reassuringly instead, and agree among themselves that they’re in just the right place now. No better, safer place for scared young people to be than Mr Fell’s Bookshop.

London’s always been a city of immigrant populations, of diverse peoples all being crammed together. What’s one or two more sets of people coming here to escape something, or to find something better? Nothing better than Soho, not in the whole wide world, after all.

Mr Fell’s apartment must be getting dreadfully cramped, Sally from down the street comments one day, but no one answers except to hum quietly in acknowledgment. Mr Fell will find everyone a place to stay, just like he always has.

Mr Crowley seems a bit non-plussed by it all at first; probably doesn’t like sharing Mr Fell with anyone, everyone titters gently to each other over tea and chatter. He’s never had to do so before; except with all of them, of course, but he’s never minded all that much having to share with Soho. He settles down soon enough though, perhaps taking his ever-increasing brood of wide-eyed followers under his own wing for guidance and safety.

Mr Crowley can often be found roping young street artists into his walking tours of graffiti and vandalism, explaining cultural patterns and gang symbols, and the complicated system of warnings and threats and adverts for various… activities. _[13]_

_[13] Often enough that the tours become a bit of a tourist attraction, a Thing to Do When Visiting London. A part of the old Soho Charm. No one is quite sure whether it’s supposed to be performance art or an immersive experience, but no one really cares, either._

The tours rarely manage to make much progress, as someone will inevitably get distracted by some fashionable item of clothing, or a skateboard, or bike tricks. Then everyone else has to have a go, with so much eagerness and determination to master a new thing that the local groups all pitch in to help show them the ropes or let them all try on possibly every item of clothing anyone else is wearing.

Mr Crowley always ends up leaning against a wall watching the interchange of information and tricks, shaking his head and scowling in mortification and frustration at his little group’s antics. But he’ll always be smiling when he thinks no one is looking, and he always insists on everyone mastering at least one new trick before he allows them all to go home. Elderly Mrs Liu who lives next to the bookshop says she always knows when Mr Crowley has taken a group out, because they all come home all but shouting over each other to tell Mr Fell all about it. She says it reminds her of when the grandchildren come to visit. Everyone smiles fondly and thinks of Mr Fell’s quieter but no less genuine enthusiasm for things he likes, and the passionate dedication Mr Crowley expends on that car of his. These young people, these new ones, they might all be adults in body, but they seem so very new to everything all the same.

“It’s nice to see them settling down at long last,” Mrs Burrows smiles, nodding her thanks to Raiesa when she helps carry this week’s food shopping up the stairs. “Though I see they skipped the honeymoon to go straight to raising children together, don’t you say?”

They giggle together like school girls; such a lovely couple they’ve always made, Mr Fell and Mr Crowley.

“Perhaps they’ve already had enough honeymooning, what with how long it took for them to tie the knot. Thought they’d try something a bit different?”

“Hmm, likely as not, I suppose. They suit being parents, don’t they?”

“Don’t they just? Made for it they were.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, check out my blog for random thoughts on writing, fantasy, dragons and folklore. Also there's a tiny dragon as a guest-star, so that can't be bad!  
> I can be found at: <https://herebeblog.wordpress.com/>


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